Hope of Salvation
by Japhu
Summary: Harry Potter must lead, but Harry is led a prophecy, though – a real one – cannot be forced. It will find a way to fulfil itself. What does it mean for the Wizarding world that Harry is not Harry Potter and never has been since that night at Halloween? AU
1. Prologue : Sad Duty

**Title:** Harry Potter and the Hope of Salvation

_**Author:**__ Japhu_

_**Beta Reader:**__ antipyro_

_**Pairing:**__ still in the clouds_

_**Rating:**__ M_

_**Disclaimer: **__I own nothing of Harry Potter and his world and don't make any money with it._

_**Summary: **__Harry Potter must lead, but Harry is led; a prophecy, though – a real one – cannot be forced. It will find a way to fulfil itself. What does it mean for the Wizarding world that Harry is not Harry Potter and never has been since that fateful night at Halloween? (__will be AU)_

_**Category:**__ General/Suspense_

_**Feedback:**__ Would be nice to have._

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**Prologue – Sad Duty**

The old man at King's Cross station came from a small village, four hours way with the train. He did not like the big cities, full of constant noise and hectic people. However, his grandchild, little Amanda, was having her eleventh birthday today; and it had been a long time since he had come to London to visit his only daughter, anyway. She had wanted to pick him up from the station, but now he prayed that she had not come and hoped that his sweet angel did not let it ruin her party when her grandpa came a bit late to bring the presents.

When the first explosion rang through the air, shook the surrounding buildings to their foundation stones and threw Paul Higgins painfully to the ground, he had still been a whole block away from the centre of destruction. Now he got groaning up to a knee with the coppery sweet taste of blood in his mouth. Old age and arthritis burned in his joints and made it even harder for him to get his trembling body up from the asphalt. He did not know what was happening, but he definitely felt too old for such things and somehow detached from all of it, as he could barely believe that it was real.

Paul Higgins squinted his eyes. All he could still see behind his broken glasses was a fragmented world of chaos hidden inside a floating cloud of dust. Never in his life, would he have thought that he would see such things again after that bloody war had finally ended forty years ago. People ran left and right aimlessly, passing him in fright, wanting to flee from where more explosions and shouts were coming from. Other people sat crying on the ground or lay dead next to those crying. Adults pulled screaming children behind them, trying to get them to safety, all their eyes wide with fear, the clothes bloody and torn from their bodies. It could not be real, not here in London in the midst of the city.

This nightmarish feeling grew. Maybe it was because his ears still rang from the explosion. He had to strain himself to hear more than the loudest pleas for help, the most desperate screams of the injured and mourning and the worrisome sound of what he believed to be gunfire.

Blinking, Paul Higgins watched another of those curiously dressed up people walk into his line of view. Maybe it was those men who made everything seem unreal, those men and their strange green lights that flashed here and there wherever they went and made another body fall in front of them, they were the only ones who moved around as if they were taking a walk in a park.

Then a boy stepped somewhat cautiously around one of these strangers, took a wide stride above a fallen body and spotted old, watching Paul Higgins. No one else seemed to be able to see the boy as he moved undisturbed around.

The boy was not supposed to be here, but clad in ripped, dirty jeans and T-shirt he drew no more attention than anyone else did. He moved resolutely directly towards the dumbly staring Muggle with a confidence that should be forbidden, and even in his torn clothes, he was surrounded by an aura of arrogance as if his dark curls were not covered in soot and dust. It seemed not to bother him noticeably to leave bloody footprints behind.

"Are you alright, Mister?" The boy's grip sneaked firmly but carefully around his shaking shoulders and led him away from the masses of people. The boy did not want to have a witness, but he wanted to be part of it. He felt that it was time for him to do what he was born to do.

"What happened?" The Muggle's voice was hoarse and he made the boy nearly go deaf he spoke so loud. Luckily, the man he had chosen to be his was not the only one screaming. The boy smiled and patted his shoulder comfortingly.

"Everything will be okay, sir." He said a bit louder. "They say it was a gas explosion that destroyed some houses over there."

The Muggle followed the way the nice lad pointed and did not fight against the helpful hands that pulled him further. It was right that he took him aside, lest an old guy like himself stood in the way of the rescue personnel when the fire brigade and police arrived. Warm, brown eyes watched him worriedly, a slight smile twitching around his lips.

Paul Higgins did not hear the whispered words of the spell, but he saw the light moving towards him. It was not green, but in the back of his head, he knew that he had made a mistake and that lastly he would fall to the ground like the other people before him.

A young police officer found Paul Higgins' body a few hours later in the same side street the boy had taken him to, hidden behind a rubbish container and covered with old newspapers and cardboard boxes, lying in a rapidly drying pool of blood.

With narrowed eyes, the young officer looked around. Maybe the old man had hidden himself after hell broke out in London. He would have bled to death when he was badly injured. A purse laid only a few steps away from him. Should it be the old man's wallet that must have been found in his hiding place? The young man sighed. The street rats were never far away when they smelled something worth their time. In chaos like that, they would never be found. Poor old guy. This had been slaughter.

Swallowing back the bile that rose in his throat the young man pulled out his radio to call for his colleagues … and found himself in another part of the street, confused for a moment. Then he did what he had been sent for and helped to erect even more barriers to prevented curious bystanders and desperate residents to go near the destroyed buildings. A gas explosion was nothing easy to take.

At the same time, the first special edition of the _Daily Prophet_ went on sale and the Wizarding world's cry of despair rang through the air just as loud as the explosions of several gas tanks the Muggles of London were going to be convinced to have heard without exception.

It was late evening when the old wizard sat back in his office with a cup of tea and a pouch of lemon drops. He paid the frenzied delivery owl on his desk a worried look. He rolled out the parchment, humming an insignificant melody; a magnificent bird at his side calmly preened its feathers. Then Albus Dumbledore read the article that would burry the hopes of thousands and would change the future of many else.

_The Boy-Who-Lived GONE_

_By I. Emma Bugg _

_It is our sad duty to inform you that Harry Potter, the only wizard ever to survive the killing curse, has gone missing this afternoon in an ambush by unknown forces on his way to his last living relatives' home, where he spends his holiday hea__vily warded and protected from You-Know-Who._

_The attack on Harry Potter occurred within London only a few hundred meters away from King's Cross station. Reports of several eyewitnesses show that dozens of dark robed and white masked wizards and witches (known sign of recognition of You-Know-Who's followers) apparated suddenly into the highly populated area within Muggle London._

_According to unofficial statements of different members of the Wizarding Law Enforcement Agency it is highly suspect, that You-Know-Who himself led the attack to bring the Boy-Who-Lived into his hands._

_The number of dead surmounts a hundred; more are recovered by the minute. Most of the victims are Muggles. Among the identified dead is Vernon Dursley, Harry Potter's uncle. Harry Potter's aunt and cousin, both Muggles themselves, have been taken u__nder protection for their own safety. Only but a few selected Aurors to guard their lives know where they are hidden, as it is not out of the question that followers of You-Know-Who or You-Know-Who himself will once more try to kill the only living family of Harry Potter._

_A specially assigned unit of Aurors has taken over the task of future investigations to find the whereabouts of the fifteen-year-old Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, whose fate is still unknown._

_The Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge is, as of yet unavailable to the public. To our question of what will be done to ensure the Wizarding world's safety, now when the Boy-Who-Lived may well be gone forever, no member of the Ministry of Magic was willing or able to comment._

In his enormous bathtub in the west wing of a centuries old wonder of Wizarding architecture the master's only son and heir of Malfoy Manor leaned lazily back, an evil smile on his usually calm, aristocratic face. The unusual color in his cheeks did not only come from the hot water he was soaking in to get the grime and dirt off his smooth, white skin. He glowed with satisfaction and he did not try to hide it. Nobody was there to watch the cold gleam in his gaze growing tenfold when he held up the latest edition of the _Daily Prophet_, his eyes caught in pictures full of destruction and blood, to relish again in what had been accomplished today. It had been a great day and if it got any better than hopefully Harry Potter was finally dead. With a broad smirk on his face Draco Malfoy dove under, happy with fate and the world at large. His laughter was quiet, but for once it was true as he tried to imagine how that bloody fool of a Gryffindor must feel right now – if he felt at all.

The boy who was known as the Boy-Who-Lived had a strong will, but a mind that was open for attack. He was not dead, not yet anyway, although he began to wish that he were. To begin the next adventure (as his headmaster preferred to call the inevitable) could not possibly be worse than what he lived through now.

He had not seen many Death Eaters, but the ones he had glimpsed through his nearly swollen shut eyes were bad enough. Harry did not know which fingers he could still move after more than one boot had stomped onto them. He felt as if he was holding his hands into open fire. He would have curled together to get some warmth if it had not brought back that piercing ache within his chest. His every breath hurt like hell and his scar had not stopped bleeding since King's Cross station, never once had he felt even the smallest sign of relief. It felt just as if Voldemort was standing right next to him the whole time, touching him, bringing with him excruciating pain that pulsed through his body with unnatural force.

Much worse than every physical torture could be though, was the game that Voldemort played. Harry shuddered when he thought about an eternity locked up in his own mind without seeing anything, without the ability to hear or to smell or taste. Nothing would be left for him but the knowledge that there was a life, that somewhere, just out of reach, were people feeling emotions and watching the world through their eyes. For eternity Harry would crawl within … nothing, always remembering that once he had been able to cry and to laugh.

It seemed as if his luck had finally run out on him. Harry breathed a sigh of relief when darkness closed in on him, hopefully taking him to the next adventure before his tormentors came back or worse – Voldemort himself ended this game of his and finished what he had started so many years ago.


	2. Chapter 1 : Hogwarts 1981

**Chapter 1 – Hogwarts 1981**

The boy did not have a name, not anymore. By all rights he should be dead. The wizards had just about counted that the infant would die in the process of … changing. They had accomplished a very dangerous ritual, whose origin lay back thousands of years and had been added to the black list of forbidden magic by the Ministry of Magic hundreds of years ago.

Long before they had started the actual incantations they had cleared the desk and covered it with a soft blue blanket before the younger of them had put the infant down, with regret visible in his old face. He too had thought the boy would die. Then both wizards had gathered their magic, connected their power through their bond of family and blood and awoke something that had not been called forth in eons. For hours they stood, sweat covering their faces, chanting without once breaking their trance even when the boy's screams pierced through the air and echoed faintly in the empty corridors of the ancient castle.

Hours had gone by and now, after they had finally accomplished the ritual successfully, the two greyed men gazed down at the crying infant with incredulity. Its tiny legs flailed about in vain and stubby fists rose angrily into the air towards the wizards that had just played a dangerous game with its life. However, it was much too late to get away. The soft blue blanket under its body was now mixed with red from the deep scratches of unnatural force that had been left as their signs on the smooth skinned baby boy.

For what he had gone through the infant looked healthy enough, but there was no question that the ritual had almost killed it. The tiny chest heaved forcefully. The boy was unhealthy pale and his desperate cries of pain and fear did not only weaken out of exhaustion but the blood loss and shock took its part. Should the boy survive then he would have scars on body and soul to prove what had been done to him. It was a wonder the boy had a single breath left within him. He really should be dead.

The wizards had not counted on the child's will to survive after the ritual had drained the magic from its small body. The loss of his magic was the price this boy would pay. He was practically a Squib now. None of the wizards believed that the boy would ever be able to do more than the simplest spells, if at all. But be that as it may, this was a price the wizards were willing to pay, one more than the other. Sacrifices had to be made not only from the adults fighting at the front, but from everyone who lived in this world; from everyone who wanted to have a world in the future when the war was over one way or another.

Nevertheless, they were no murderers; they had taken the boy from its home because it was the only way to preserve what must not be changed, at least not due to human intent and the predictability of the world at large. His death was merely a calculated risk. There were things out in the world much more important than this boy, things that had to happen when the time was due.

For a moment the old wizards gazed at each other wearily. Both of them were exhausted and it had seemd they reached their limits sometime ago. For once they truly looked their age, but they were not finished yet. There was a last thing that needed to be done, now when the boy seemed to go on living just so he could spite them.

Should the infant truly survive the next month then he would bear too much resemblance to certain persons. There must be no question about the true parentage of this boy. He would be better off if no one in the Wizarding world recognized his features. That he would be nearly defenceless being a Squib was just a minor fact that bore no reason towards the decision the wizards made to change not only his appearance but also his blood.

It was no easy feat to manage though, not even for the two brothers who were stronger than most and well versed in matters other witches or wizards would not even dare to think about. They would need time to recuperate. Perhaps tomorrow they would see what was to be done about it, if the child was still alive by then.

Wearily the younger one cast a spell to clean the boy and then some to close the bleeding wounds. He gathered the crying child in his arms, held it close to his body to give it some warmth. He felt split about what they had done and what they would still do. However, James Potter had not pleaded in vain with him days prior when they had spoken a last time without Albus there to watch and overhear. Maybe Aberforth would have doubts about what he had all but promised to do afterwards, but deep within his old heart he knew that it was the right thing to do.

Cradling the boy, Aberforth sat down exhaustedly in one of the chairs opposite his brother's desk, all too aware that Albus did not let his gaze wander once for he had to be curious to know what was going on with him.

"Can you find one in time, Albus?" Aberforth did not turn his eyes from the infant's quivering lips. The blood changing ritual had to be done as soon as possible.

"Of course. There're enough abandoned Muggle children that won't be missed by anyone." Albus stated coldly, pushing the bloody blanket to the edge of his desk and above.

"A Muggle?" Aberforth looked up now, surprise evident. "Wouldn't be a wizard's blood bringing better results?"

"What does it matter, Aberforth?" Twinkling blue eyes narrowed. "The boy will be a Squib no matter what blood he has. A Muggle will be much easier to grasp and it won't lead to questions no one can answer."

"Yes." Aberforth tickled the boy's bare chest, keeping away from the healing wounds. "You're probably right." They would need blood – a lot of blood – from a child no older than this little boy and of the same gender. They would drain both bodies of their blood and while one child would in the process die right then, the other would get its unfortunate 'brother-in-fate's' blood infused through every pore of its body. It was messy, very painful and one of the darkest rituals the human mind had ever thought of.

"Of course I'm right, Aberforth." It did not matter if they used a wizard or Muggle the boy would be Squib no matter what.

"I know you are. It's just sad that the boy won't have a chance to become what he should be." Whatever magic the baby boy had left now would soon be imbued with the Muggle's blood and in a month's time there would be no trace left that he had ever been more than a very weak Muggleborn, too weak to get the school's invitation letter when he reached his eleventh birthday, but strong enough to know what he was and what he was missing. For all his life he would neither be part of the Wizarding world nor part of the Muggle world.

Aberforth carried the boy into the adjoining room. The small house elf huddled there would only be too glad to care for the child until the morning came. Cubby was one of the Potter's house elves. She had refused to leave no matter what Albus had said or done. The only thing she repeatedly said was that she was a good house elf and would do what her master had ordered her to do even though he was all but gone now.

Aberforth left the child in her care. While he was getting ready for the night he new that his brother was now trying to find one unfortunate, suitable candidate for the blood changing ritual tomorrow. More than once during the night Aberforth woke from screams and pleas for help he only heard in his mind; but in the next morning the infant was still alive and next to him lay another child sleeping, thin strands of soft fuzzy hair covered an otherwise bald head and a fist served as a dummy Albus had not cared to bring with him. Aberforth turned away from the child. Maybe they should better kill the little one than destroy another child's life? It was a crazy world they lived in.

It was after a meagre breakfast when the wizards undertook this second ritual as the boy had survived the night. Again, they would both do it together, only one of them would not be strong enough to hold the required amount of power for that length of time. No one would be able to reveal the true parentage of the boy, no one who had not been present during the ritual. The ritual was taxing, especially when the wails of one child dimmed to stop totally when its heart stopped beating and the other child screamed all the more as if to make up for its dead fellow sufferer.

At last the wizards spoke a glamour spell strong enough to hold until they themselves spoke the _Finite Incantatem_ together. They used their own blood to lock the spell so that no one else would ever be able to end it.

Lastly Aberforth picked up the boy with care. He fervently avoided looking at the other side where he knew the lifeless body of the nameless Muggle boy lay. Still, out of the corner of his eye he saw the small body. With a deep breath he turned away when he felt bile rising in his throat and instead of mourning the dead he thought about what to do with the living.

Now the little one was truly lost. He had no parents, no name and now they had taken away even his appearance and blood, the last thing that had been left from a life he would no longer live; and the boy had no way to get back even one of these things for as long as he lived. It was sad, maybe it would have been better if he died, but that could still happen. The ritual had been a torture for a child as small as this one. This child must be exceptionally strong willed and stubborn to not give up even if faced with the inevitable defeat.

With a sad smile the wizard gazed down at the whimpering infant and took it into his arms, looking at the boy for a first time. The baby was still a bit pale, but that could not be helped and hopefully it would get some color into its cheeks as soon as it had recovered from this ordeal. Silky soft, red blond hair moved in an unnoticeable breeze and dark grey eyes gazed around wearily, last traces of tears covering the cheeks. He was a cute little thing with those freckles on its snub nose. However, all this was due to the heavy glamour and illusionment charm they had put onto him after they had to admit that he would not simply stop breathing because it would be easier in the long run.

Aberforth would make certain that the boy did get a chance for a new life. The baby would need a new name, too. He smiled and caressed its cheek, all too aware that his older brother watched him curiously the whole time. Albus would not care either way.

"What do you think of Victurus?" With a thoughtful smile the grey haired wizard glanced at his brother out of the corner of his eye.

"The boy is of no concern to me now." Answered the old man indifferently after only a moment's hesitation. "Whatever you name him we'll have to give him into an orphanage."

"Shouldn't we keep him? To see if he gets better?" With every minute passing by the baby's wails got weaker, his skin paled to chalk white and soon it would not even have enough strength anymore to raise its' fist against those who did this to him.

"You want to keep him? Raise him?" Blue eyes widened incredulously as he stared at his brother truly surprised for once. Albus had not seen this coming.

"I'd like to, yes. Why not?" Aberforth shrugged. "It's not as if someone's waiting for him." He stood firm under his brother's watchful gaze. A long life with him had taught him well how to deal with Albus.

"Well, if he survives it would probably be better to keep an eye on him." Albus pondered aloud, not noticing his brother's posture stiffening imperceptibly. He opened his mouth to say something else when the house elf popped in to the office right next to Aberforth, gazing big eyed and worried, but nevertheless very determined towards the great wizard that was Albus Dumbledore.

"Cubby is stays with little master, sir." She said kneading her simple shirt frantically. "Master Potter is orders Cubby to go with little master, sir. Cubby is given to little master. Cubby is a good elf and is care for little master. Cubby …"

"Well, Aberforth." Albus' eyes twinkled, though he was surprised by the turn of events. "That takes care of that. You now have a house elf with you." James had never said anything of giving his house elf away. It made Albus wonder what happened to the other elves the Potter family owned. As far as he remembered it had been no more than five at most. "Did master Potter know that the boy would survive?" he asked suspiciously though there could have been no way for that to happen.

"No, sir Dumbledore, sir." The house elf shook its head quite fervently. "But Cubby is stays when little master lives. This is Cubby's order, and Cubby is a good elf, Cubby is care…!"

"Yes, yes, quite." Albus interrupted the frenzy house elf. "What were you to do should the …little master die?" He gazed intently at the elf, but the small creature pressed her eyes tightly close and shook her head.

"Cubby is not saying, sir Dumbledore, sir. This is master's order, sir."

"I don't think there's anything you can do, Albus," intervened Aberforth, the boy still pressed to his chest. "Maybe James just wanted to be sure that he's not leaving loose strings when he is … gone."

"Yes, perhaps." Albus did not like not knowing, even if it was such small a matter whom James Potter left his house elves.

"I'd be glad if you would come with me to help care for the little master, Cubby." Aberforth turned to the house elf. It would be better if the little thing was out of the way before Albus got his mind up to interrogate her thoroughly. "Pop in at my home and feel free to prepare the room under the roof for your little master. There's nothing there what a child needs, but I'm sure you'll do fine."

"Yes." The house elf's whole demeanour brightened. "Cubby will do this. Cubby is a good elf." This time it was Aberforth who silenced her and a moment later she popped away and the man breathed a sigh of relief.

"I'm curious." Albus gazed at the spot where the house elf had stood.

"About what?" Aberforth said disinterestedly and cooed at the weakly gurgling baby in his arms.

"What else James has done that I don't know of. I hope it doesn't intervene with the plan." Albus shook his head.

"They loved their son, Albus." Aberforth reminded the older man. "Lily gave her life and James …did the same in a way. I doubt they'd do anything that threatened their boy's life."

"Ah, it's too late now to ask." Albus popped a lemon drop in his mouth and leaned back, satisfaction evident all over his face. He frowned only when he watched the small infant in his brother's arms.

"I'll better take him back to Hogsmeade so he can sleep it off." Aberforth shifted the boy in his left arm, holding him securely.

"Do that." Albus nodded. "Let me now if something untoward happens."

"I'll do that." With Victurus in his arms Aberforth stepped toward the hearth and reached out to the small bowl of floo powder only to turn around to his brother with a heavy sigh and gaze straight at him, his expression inscrutable.

"Oh, yes," Aberforth remembered. "There's one thing, Albus, that James asked me to tell you." He cradled the boy closer to him. The way Albus stared at him Aberforth was glad once again that he was a better Occlumens than Albus was a Legilimens.

"Yes?" Twinkling blue eyes fastened on Aberforth patronizingly. "What was it?"

"Obliviate!" Aberforth all but breathed, but he pored as much power into the spell as he could. For a moment he stood unmoving, staring at his dazed looking brother. Aberforth did not do something like that lightly, not even to strangers, but he agreed with James, who did not trust Albus to keep his machinations to himself and to follow his own plan once they had passed the point where anyone could truly interfere with the headmaster of Hogwarts.

"Cubby," Aberforth called out and an instant later the elf popped in. The Potter house elves were extraordinary in their power and devotion for the family. Generations of them from the same families served for the wizard family.

"Sir is asking for Cubby, sir?" With one glance she realized and dismissed the state of Albus Dumbledore.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you, Cubby. I need you to clear away all traces of what happened during the last days here. There must remain no evidence that little master was here at any time. Then take the dead child and burry it behind the Dumbledore family crypt. You speak to no one about this ever, not even to him." Aberforth pointed toward his brother.

"Cubby is listening. Cubby is doing what sir wants. Cubby is caring for little master."

"Yes. Don't miss anything." Aberforth glanced around. Even one drop of blood and Albus would grow suspicious. Cautiously he stepped over to the Pensieve. Extracting memories from it that were not his own was almost impossible – almost. Aberforth called Cubby over and sent her to bring his own Pensieve from his home. A minute later she was back. He had not an endless amount of time until Albus awoke from his daze. Soundlessly, Aberforth mouthed an incantation and dipped the tip of his wand in the silvery liquid. Twirling it around a few times he pulled it back out very cautiously, a big pulsing ball of silver hovered around his wand. All memories of Albus that could in any way lead up to him knowing about what had gone on today were a moment later released into his own Pensieve. Now he had done all he could. Quietly sending Cubby to bring it back, Aberforth then turned around with a frown. His eyes narrowed at the newly born baby phoenix. He could do nothing about the bird, but he did not wish harm to his brother, he only wanted to prevent his brother harming someone else. While Cubby cleared everything Aberforth thought about what information he should feed his brother's mind with.

"We found two abandoned Muggle babies in the forest, brothers presumably," Aberforth began the slightly changed tale of happenings. "One was already dead. We buried the child together in the back of our family's crypt. You are glad to help me get custody of the surviving boy. With all the details I'm giving you, you'll fill out all the Ministry forms for me. You have no interest whatsoever in this boy, because he is weak and a Muggle and of no use for your plans whatever they are. You don't interfere in the way I'm raising him or with the people he or I'll befriend. The plan you designed with the Longbottoms and the Potters in case Voldemort made his move failed. You never needed my help accomplishing the rituals because you never even started them. James Potter is dead alongside his wife. Their son Harry is left with his relatives so that you can keep an eye on him and the minister away from him at the same time. You never tried to get to the Malfoys or the Zabinis. Both families are of little interest for you now. You rest safe in the knowledge that you're the only one who knows the full prophecy made of the boy and that no one in the Wizarding world up to now knows where you hide the Boy-Who-Lived."

Aberforth held his wand straight at his brother. Memory spells went easily amiss, more so with someone like Albus who had more loopholes and safety lines anchored in his mind than anyone could guess, but Aberforth knew. He repeated the spells once and legilimized his dazed brother to see where the spell took hold and where it seemed to slip over some part of memory. Aberforth was sure to recognize those and to open them for the spell's benefit. It would not do when Albus remembered anything of what had happened during the last days. He could not take away all memories, because Albus had planned and worked to this point for over a year now and it would leave his brother looking like a Swiss cheese if he erased all of those memories. At last Aberforth let him repeat everything and never once was there a sign of recognition or resistance in his brother's mind. Aberforth tucked his wand back into the holster and ruefully threw the floo powder. The infant safely pressed to his chest he stepped into the green flames, leaving his brother to ponder what to do with the Boy-Who-Lived that was now living at the Dursleys, waiting for his eleventh birthday to get reintroduced to his parents' world.

Five minutes later the fire in Albus Dumbledore's office flared up again as his brother visited him to get the bothersome part of Wizarding bureaucracy done with as few complications as possible.

"Albus," Aberforth said brightly, his twinkle even starrier then the one of his brother, "how are you today?"

"I have never been better, Aberforth." The man offered the pouch of lemon drops. "How's your little boy doing?" Albus did not say what he truly thought about his brother taking in a Muggle infant. Aberforth had always been too soft. However, the Muggle was nothing that concerned Albus. When his brother wanted to have him he would get him. Most probably he would grow bored with the child and its constant wailing and give it into an orphanage in a month's time. Aberforth never kept his attention on the same thing for long. Albus thought it likely that he only took the boy in because of his bad conscience, because he could not prevent James' death even though he was the one who came up with the idea how they could work around it, and Harry needed to be kept away from the Wizarding world, now more than ever.

"He's all right." Aberforth popped the sweet into his mouth. "I think he might have caught a cold or something though, otherwise I'd have brought him with me."

"Yes, I'd like to see him more often now when he's become family."

"So you'll help me with those forms?"

"Of course. Who would I be if I didn't?" Albus shook his head at his brother. "What else is my name good for?"

"It can't be always that easy, Albus." Aberforth twirled his beard.

"They won't have any objections to you taking an abandoned Muggle under your wing. They'd possibly asked for your wife's income if it was a wizard's child, but even that would not be impossible. I know quite a few people within the ministry." He grinned brightly. "You should sometime bother more about the real world than about your infatuation with goats, brother." Aberforth just looked at him and Albus laughed gleefully. "Anyway, at the end of the day this boy will legally be yours."

Aberforth let himself fall into a chair with a thankful nod and watched Albus writing the necessary letters right away. He was glad this part was done and the boy safely tucked away with an ecstatic Cubby watching over him. No one would find fault in the papers. Now he only needed to work through the Muggle authorities to get the necessary papers. After all, a supposed Muggle, even an abandoned one, could not appear out of nowhere, whether he lived in the Wizarding world or not.

Late in the night a cloaked figure stepped in front of the tombstone adding the name of James Potter to the one of his wife that was already written on it. Albus and Aberforth had played god these recent days. They had buried Lily without anyone there to say good-bye to her. It was not yet common knowledge that the Potters were even dead, though it would not take much longer for the public eye to catch on. To their wish only the closest family was invited to the ceremony, or that would be what Albus told the press. None of their friends would complain, all of them would only think they were not counted among family.

"You won't have to give up more than what you did already, little one." The small child that was cradled in the man's arm, clad in warm clothes and heavily wrapped in thick blankets, did not make a sound. Victurus' condition was bothersome. Aberforth sighed.

Albus wanted to be sure that no one could manipulate the prophesized boy – no one but himself that is. Now the child was truly free and if the prophecy was supposed to happen it would. Aberforth would not interfere; though he would stay near to keep an eye on what his brother did with the one who would be known as Harry Potter.

They had changed some lives in unbelievable ways while they ended others in the blink of an eye. Who had given them the right to do so? His shoulders sagged and he left the graveyard without glancing back, an infant too exhausted to even whimper, quietly sleeping in his arms.

"Because of you, little one," he faintly whispered into the dark, "Harry will be cared for, even if it's by family that should rightfully be yours."


End file.
